


Never Run From A Predator

by Jedijuana (orphan_account)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Werewolf Jesse McCree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 17:03:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7810111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Jedijuana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Through a haze of confusion, Hanzo wondered if the man had passed out. Suddenly, he felt nails dig into his arms. Sharp nails. McCree jerked his head up to look at Hanzo. His body and face were twisting, rearranging, transforming. His eyes flashed. Had they always been a golden yellow?</p>
<p>“RUN!” McCree whispered harshly, and shoved Hanzo backwards over the incline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Run From A Predator

McCree had been acting strange all day. Missing shots, somehow even less focused than usual. He was uncharacteristically aloof. Quiet. He was even giving Hanzo what could be considered the cold shoulder. None of the usual flirting. Hanzo found himself -irritatingly enough- annoyed by it. Perhaps the sharp-shooter was mad at him? But he couldn’t recall anything he’d done that could possibly upset the man. Try as he might, of course. Hanzo had gone to McCree’s room with plans to ask him what the meaning of it all was. Perhaps he was getting sick? That had been 2 hours ago.

When Hanzo got to McCree’s room, knocked, received no answer, knocked again, and upon receiving no answer still, went in, he found the room in disarray. Clothes scattered on the floor, bullets and bullet casings littered around, cigarette and cigar butts both, lying near wherever they had been stubbed out. Hanzo could remember from a previous glance into the room that this was normal. Just as he was about to walk out and shut the door, decide he didn’t care if McCree was mad at him or not, or possibly find someone to ask if they’d seen him, he noticed something out of place; a small notebook? Hanzo peeked back into the hallway to conform no one was watching, then slipped into the room and slid the door shut. Three paces and he was across the floor, directly in front of the short bedside table that the notebook lay on. A closer look determined it was a pocket calendar, open to the page of the current week. Exes in black ink eliminated the four days prior to today, which was circled heavily in red, with a time, 7:24, penned in the center. Hanzo glanced at the alarm clock that also resided on the short bedside table. 7:02. And now he was curious about what that meant too. Did it have anything to do with McCree’s strange behavior? Would he be overstepping a boundary by asking? He decided after a moment of thought that he wouldn't mention the calendar; after all, that would be an admission to snooping. Hanzo’s curiosity and a preexisting desire for fresh air, along with something less than desire to speak to another teammate, partially because he hadn’t bothered to get to know any of them too well, partially because most of them were much too energetic for him to interact with more than he absolutely had to, drove him outside. As he passed his own room, he remembered it would be rather chilly outside, and stopped to pull on a sweater -his only sweater- over his white t-shirt. It was a gift from DVa; or Hana, he wasn’t really sure if he should continue using her alias since she told him her name. She’d given it to him for some holiday that he’d never heard of and was convinced she made up, saying something about him looking cold. At first glance he swore he’d tuck it away somewhere and hopefully never think of it again, deep navy with an electric blue caricature of a rabbit printed on the front, but soon he started wearing it more and more, and later came to realize he liked it. McCree once said he liked it too, Hanzo remembered with a huff.

As he pushed his way through the left side of the double doors that led outside, he was greeted with a crisp breeze that he could feel tug at his hair, and decided Jesse’s mood would pass and it would be best not to accidentally exacerbate it because he let his curiosity get the better of him. Not feeling his gold ribbon tugging at his hair because he had opted for something less flashy, a normal, black elastic band, was rather distracting. It felt like something was missing. He heard the door tap and click shut behind him, shoved his hands deep in his sweater pocket, and began hiking across the compound. The asphalt soon cut into cement, which cut into gravel, and the trail began winding. Hanzo heard there could be nails, screws, and sharp rocks mixed in with the pebbles, and was glad he couldn’t feel the soles of his metal feet.

Taller and taller rocks began jutting out of the ground on either side of the trail and began moving in, narrowing it, until they swallowed the path it would take altogether. The trail of course, not to be stopped, simply climbed over the boulders in its path. Hanzo pulled his hands out of his pockets for balance, and nimbly jumped, step by step, up the terrace of boulders, and continued along the trail which was now simply a path trampled through the dust, where the grass wouldn’t grow, barely a car tire’s width across. Hanzo shut his eyes and imagined he was crossing the length of a gymnast’s beam.

To his right, above the terrace that loomed just over his head, he heard a voice. He opened his eyes. It’s not as if people weren't allowed out here, he told himself. He couldn’t make out any words.

Instead of travelling farther down the rock wall to where it would be easier to jump up, he took his hands out of his pockets again and hoisted himself up the wall, just far enough to peer over the edge; carefully, meticulously, and silently placing his footfalls. It was the spot where Hanzo sometimes came when he wanted to be alone but didn’t feel like staying shut inside his room, a flat area with a carpet of mosses and short grass, shaded by a stunted, twisted tree, overlooking a rocky cliff. The very man he had been looking for moments ago was there. Hanzo silently sucked in a breath. This place wasn’t a secret by any means, but it certainly wasn't easy to find. Either McCree had previous knowledge of the area, or he was somehow able to follow Hanzo out here at least once, and without him noticing. Perhaps the cowboy was sneakier than he looked, jangling spurs and all. What was more surprising than where he was, however, was  _ how _ he was. He was crouched down low to the ground, curled in on himself in the fetal position. He was shaking, and… growling?

A sharp gust of wind whipped past Hanzo, who quickly ducked down behind the wall as a few pebbles shook loose and clattered down the incline. Hanzo forced his breathing to steady, cursing himself. McCree’s mumbling stopped, giving way to fast, shallow breaths. Like he was in pain. Then silence, save for Hanzo’s pulse thrumming in his ears. Hanzo waited a breath, then turned around, only to see McCree standing over him. McCree grabbed him by the cloth covering his shoulders and dragged him up over the edge. Hanzo scrambled to his feet, immediately on the defensive, embarrassed at being caught.

“I-” he rushed to explain. But something wasn’t right. McCree was hunched over; standing, but still curled into himself. Hanzo supposed it should make him look smaller, but it didn’t. McCree took stumbling steps backward, away from Hanzo. He was breathing heavily. He looked like he’d just run a marathon after being stranded in the wilderness for a week. Given how the other man smoked, Hanzo doubted he would make it through either of those.

“How did you-” McCree straightened up. Did he look taller? “How did you get here?” he snarled, and stepped towards Hanzo, who instinctively stepped back, but found his heel hung over the edge of the drop.

“You can’t be here right now!” McCree’s voice was ragged and uneven. He was near panicking.

Hanzo opened his mouth to protest, this wasn’t anyone’s secret hideout, anyone could come here, but solid hands clutched him by the shoulders. Hanzo’s voice died in his throat. McCree’s face was a grimace of pain and something else. Anger? Fear? Why was he angry? What was he afraid of? Hanzo felt fingernails dig into his skin through his sweater.

“You can’t be here!” McCree repeated himself, gasping. Definitely afraid. Afraid of what? “You have to get out of here!” he growled, and his legs gave out. He knelt in front of Hanzo, still clinging to him like a vine to a tree. Through a haze of confusion, Hanzo wondered if the man had passed out. Suddenly, he felt nails dig into his arms. Sharp nails. McCree jerked his head up to look at Hanzo. His body and face were twisting, rearranging, transforming. His eyes flashed. Had they always been a golden yellow?

“RUN!” McCree whispered harshly, and shoved Hanzo backwards over the incline.

Realization hit Hanzo as he felt Jesse’s hands leave his body. His feet hit gravel, and he stumbled and landed on his backside. He scrambled to his feet and took off down the trail. He didn’t look back. Even when heard McCree hit the ground. The body that landed was too big. Hanzo felt his heart beating in his throat.

Hanzo raced down the trail, not stopping to climb down from where the boulders swallowed the path, simply jumping down with one leap. He felt a stab of pain in the ends of his knees when he landed. Gravel slid out from under his feet, then cement, then asphalt. As he pounded across the compound, he realized with a chill that the doors he came through usually locked themselves from the inside shortly after they were closed. His knees ached. He skidded to a stop just in front of the doors, even having to brace his hands against them so he wouldn't collide. He turned the handle; it better open, he didn’t have time to wait for someone to come along and open it for him. 

But it clicked, and and he threw it open. Hanzo risked a glance over his shoulder. Nothing, not even movement. Somehow this was more disconcerting than what he had expected. He stepped over the threshold, and pulled the door to slam shut behind him. He needed more time. He ripped his sweater off over his head and threw it down the hall in such a way it skidded across the floor, and shut himself in the utility closet to his left. Only now he allowed himself to begin catching his breath, push loose strands of hair out of his face, pull his shirt down from where it had hiked up from removing his sweater. He glanced around for a weapon, but it was too dark and the lightswitch was outside the door.

Hanzo stifled a shudder as he heard the doors crash open. They hadn’t locked after him. He heard the click of claws on tile, a monotone of growling following its path. He forced his breathing to still. It made him feel light-headed. He heard heavy breathing outside the door. He scrunched his eyes open and shut to the dark several times. The monster tracked his scent down the hallway; Hanzo let himself sigh silently. But the shuffling, clicking, and breathing returned. The wolf was too smart for the red herring Hanzo left for it. It came up to the door, bumped into it, sniffed around it, stuck its claws under it. Hanzo’s entire body was clenched so tight he was afraid he might shatter. He could see the shadow moving through the crack under the door.

Then the wolf started pacing. Hanzo ran over the basic knowledge he had of the layout of the building. The medbay was down the hall, between his room and the utility closet. His bow was in his room. He could not outrun the wolf.

Hanzo began to slowly and silently reach for the closest thing he could find in the dark; by the feel of it, a plastic-handled broom. He clenched his hand around it tight. His other hand slipped to the doorknob, turning it so slowly that even the wolf’s heightened hearing wouldn’t pick it up. He listened for the click on the tile, the shuffle, the breath. To the left, to the right. To the hallway, to the door. Three times, back and forth. On the fourth time the wolf approached the outside doors, Hanzo threw open the closet door and turned to face the beast, which wheeled around to face him, immediately snarling and baring its teeth, and it charged. 

It was faster than Hanzo expected. Bigger too. Too fast and too big. The wolf came down on him first with its claws. Hanzo threw his arms in front of his face instinctively, felt the searing burn as the claws ripped through his forearms. The wolf came next with its teeth, but this time, Hanzo hit it square in the muzzle with his broom. The beast staggered and growled, and Hanzo struck it again in the belly, and again to the throat. It fell to the floor, and Hanzo threw down the broom and took off down the hall, towards the medbay. He didn’t wait to see if the wolf stayed down for any amount of time.

Hanzo could swear he felt the hot breath of the wolf down his neck as he slid to a stop in front of the medbay doors. They opened inwards. He shouldered his way past and slammed the door, but it didn’t shut. Hanzo heard the great wolf snarl through the crack in the door where it had squeezed a huge, clawed hand through. Without daring to lessen his pressure on the door, Hanzo shoved against it. The wolf shoved back. Hanzo dug his heels into the linoleum and pushed full-bodily against the door. He could not out-muscle the wolf either. He could feel his feet digging scrapes into the floor and the sweat on his forehead and back of his neck and his arms and knees aching. 

There was a glass jar with cotton balls in it sitting on the desk next to him. He stretched to reach it, careful not to let the door give and flung it through the gap, straight at the beast’s face. He had almost doubted it would shatter, but it did, and the wolf pulled its hand back, howling. Hanzo slammed the door shut and braced it through the handles using a broom that was propped nearby. 

He slouched against the door, gasping for air, feeling blood drip down the backs of his hands, the dull throb of pain in his knees that kept time with his footfalls when he ran. He brushed hair out of his face where it was stuck down with sweat, probably smearing blood on himself. He was exhausted.

A shuddering slam against the door made him leap up again. He glanced around, looking for something, anything, he could use in self defence. Mercy wasn’t there. No one was there. Another slam against the door. He sprinted across the room and pulled open drawers, rummaging around for something specific. He would clean it all up later, after this was over, he promised himself. Another slam. His hand landed on a pair of surgical scissors. He ran to the other side of the room. Another slam. Grabbed a bottle of peroxide. Stabbed a hole in the bottom of the plastic bottle with the scissors. He felt it run down his arm and winced, hissed out “fuck.” Another slam against the door, and he heard the broom propped on the handles splinter. Hanzo took a deep breath, or as deep as he could with his panting, and snuck up towards the doors, taking care that the beast couldn’t see him through the narrow, now-shattered, windows set into the medbay doors. He could hear the beast panting.

One final slam into the doors and the broom gave out, and the wolf burst into the room. Hanzo spun around from behind the door and launched the peroxide bottle into its face. With the glass that was already there, Hanzo hoped it would slow the wolf down enough for him to get to his room and his bow. The wolf shrieked, clawed at its face, and Hanzo dashed around it, out the medbay doors and down the hall, grabbing a tape dispenser that was sitting on the desk.

If he thought he had run fast across the compound only moments before, he had been wrong. Getting up close and personal with the wolf made him urge himself faster, faster than he could go, he felt he could trip at any moment and it would be over. His breath was ragged in his lungs and his throat burned as he charged down the hall. He almost missed his room, and would have skidded past it if he hadn’t grabbed the door handle to halt his momentum. He threw it open, unbelievably thankful that he hadn’t locked it on his way out. He slung his bow over his shoulder before kicking the door shut, and began rummaging through the small amount of luggage he brought. He sat back on his heels, beginning to panic. He was cornered, with not much in terms of defense, as far as unstoppable beasts were concerned. 

Moonlight glinting off of something on the short bedside table caught his eye. He stumbled over to it. It was a pendant from a necklace, barely an inch in length, in the shape of an arrowhead. Stainless steel, silver plated. It was what he was looking for. He could hear the wolf stumbling down the hallway. He ripped a length of tape from the tape dispenser and attached the jewelry to the head of an actual arrow, just below the taper, unslung his bow, nocked the arrow.

The wolf was bursting through the door and upon him before he could draw. Hanzo’s back was slammed into the ground, the only barrier between him and the wolf’s jagged teeth was his bow. The wolf’s claws tore at whatever they could reach, Hanzo’s arms, ribs, legs. Hanzo kicked desperately at the beast above him, shoved with his bow, trying to throw it off. His efforts were useless; it was just too big.

Later he wouldn’t be able to say what made him think such a thing, or even if he had been thinking at all. Maybe he thought McCree could still be in there, trapped in the wolf, maybe he was just convinced he was about to be killed and called out to the first person he could think of. Maybe it was something else. Maybe it was nothing.

“Jesse!” Hanzo cried out.

And to his astonishment, the wolf relented, if only for a moment. It was long enough for Hanzo to kick the beast off, brace himself, draw his bow and fire.

The arrow met its mark in the wolf’s left kidney.

Oh how Hanzo hoped the stories he knew were true.

The wolf froze in its tracks, then toppled forward, landing on Hanzo, crushing his bow into his chest, cracking at least two ribs. Hanzo wheezed as he felt the air rush out of his lungs. He struggled, squirmed, twisted himself, trying to get out from under the creature. He couldn’t breathe. He could not only hear his pulse in his ears, but the blood rushing through his veins. He screwed his eyes shut and snapped them open again. He gasped and squirmed. A thought ran through his head.  _ Like a fish out of water. _

Just as his vision began to blur and darken around the edges, the beast on top of him began to get lighter, smaller. Until Hanzo could push it off. Hanzo’s bow clattered to the floor as he crawled away and pushed himself upright, gasping and wincing. The wolf was now a man. McCree. Naked and beat up. There was glass in his face, his nose was broken, his right hand was bruised, and there was an arrow sticking out of his abdomen. Hanzo sat on the floor, catching his breath, looking at what was now just a cowboy. Hanzo noted that McCree’s left hand, the mechanical one, was nowhere to be seen. He remembered the wolf had an organic left hand.

Because he was calming down, Hanzo began feeling his injuries. His knees ached. His shoulders. His ribs. He felt the sting from the first-drawn gashes on his arms. His head throbbed. He was tired. He was so tired. He pulled the hair tie out of his hair and ran his hands through the tangles, smoothing out the flyaways that had come loose. The alarm clock on the short bedside table caught his eye. 7:55. His shirt was shredded and covered in blood -not all of it his- and his pants were only slightly better. He couldn’t bring himself to care. Hanzo flopped down onto the floor, feeling like his muscles weren’t listening to his brain. He turned his head to look at McCree. He wasn’t breathing. Hanzo squashed down a rising feeling of panic; that was only to be expected. Hanzo turned his head back up to face the ceiling and sighed heavily. He shut his eyes; they felt dry and his eyelids were heavy. Sleep quickly overtook him from blood loss and the adrenaline low.

 

Hanzo awoke to the alarm going off. Only for a moment did he wonder why he was on the floor and not in his bed. The moment he tried to sit up, he felt the stab of pain in his chest that meant broken ribs, and the skin stretching where the gashes had more or less closed. The alarm was making his ears ring. He crawled to his knees, staggered to his feet, and crossed the distance to the short bedside table. He picked up the clock, turned off the ringing, and set it back down. 4:45. He turned his attention to the cold body he had been lying next to. He guessed there was really only one thing to do. He pulled a blanket off his bed and the scissors out of his pocket that he hadn’t realized he’d put there.

He knelt down next to McCree and unceremoniously ripped the arrow out of his abdomen. The hand he braced against McCree’s chest confirmed he felt cold and dead. He turned the arrow around in his hand, inspecting it. He frowned, the necklace had not come with it. He stood and grabbed the scissors off the bedside table, and, using them as crude forceps, dug around in the wound until he located the tiny arrowhead and pulled it out. He draped the blanket over McCree’s lower half and waited. For moments, nothing happened. Then, as he watched, the flesh seemed to rise up within the wound until it was filled and the skin closed over it, leaving only the blood that had been previously bled, and a few segmented sections of tape. Hanzo placed his hand over McCree’s chest again. He still felt cold, but not dead-cold. Another few moments passed and he felt McCree’s heart flutter to life and begin beating, and his chest began to rise and fall gently.

Hanzo removed his hand and stood up. He moved away and took out another shirt, this time black and sleeveless, but found his ribs hurt so much he couldn’t get his arms over his head. He settled for sitting in the chair, resting his head in his hand, with his eyes shut.

When Hanzo next turned his eyes back to McCree, he saw he was awake, but hadn't moved, just staring at the ceiling. The expression on his face was excruciatingly sad; it made Hanzo’s chest ache even more than it already had. He sat up fast and turned around when he heard Hanzo stand behind him. Hanzo saw where his eyes went, he could practically see the gears turning in his head. He was covered in gashes and bruises and blood. McCree furrowed his brow, the turned away and sighed. He pulled his knees to his chest, crossed his arms over them, and rested his chin on his wrists.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

Hanzo knelt down next to him and leaned over to make eye contact. McCree pointedly looked away.

“Why did you not tell anyone this would happen beforehand?” Hanzo kept his voice low. McCree scrunched his eyes shut.

McCree took in a deep breath. “I dunno. Guess I was scared people’d be afraid of me, if they knew. I just can’t handle people bein’ afraid of me.”

“They would be more afraid if you had hurt or killed someone than if you had just told them the truth and given them enough warning to adequately prepare for it.”

“I know, I know!” McCree buried his head in his arms. “I’m just stupid I guess. I dunno know what I was thinkin’. Just every time I started thinkin’ I should say somethin’ I chickened out, okay?” Almost as an afterthought, he added “an’ it sure does  _ look _ like I hurt someone.” He made eye contact with Hanzo.

Hanzo sighed. “I am fine.” He was very uncomfortable. The cowboy was not like this. It felt strange and out of place and bad. “Although I do not know why I ran when you told me to. I know better than to run from a predator,” he added.

McCree buried his head in his knees again and sucked in a shuddering breath. “I know. I know that too. The big guy chases anything that moves.”

Hanzo turned to look back at McCree. “Then why did you tell me that?”

McCree suddenly sat up, unfolding himself. “I don’t know! I just damn well don’t know! It happens every time, I can feel him clawin’ his way up and I panic. I lose it. I can’t think. All I know is how to hide. How to hide and how to run.” His shoulders shook as his breath shuddered again. “The worst is I can remember all of it but I’m not in control. It’s all hazy like I’m on somethin’ but I remember it.” McCree rested his cheek in his hand and his elbow on his knee, facing away from Hanzo.

Before Hanzo knew what he was doing, he reached out, put his hand on McCree, and started tracing slow, wide circles down his back. McCree flinched slightly, but otherwise didn’t react. Hanzo felt McCree’s shoulders relax under his touch.

After a few moments,McCree turned to Hanzo, rubbing at his eye with a sad smile. “Know what’s really funny though, is I didn’t used to hate the big guy so much.” When Hanzo didn’t respond with words, he continued. “I used to think he was real cool. ‘Bout fourteen or fifteen. The master chicken and goat snatcher.” McCree raised his hands and drew them through the air like he was indicating a sign that said so. “I was the only one who knew of his crimes, o’ course, but that didn’t stop me from lovin’ him.” McCree slouched back down again.

“But you hate him now,” Hanzo pointed out. “Why?” He immediately regretted asking. It wasn’t his place to ask why.

McCree turned his gaze away again and slouched down even further. “Was ‘bout fifteen. Was that time of the month again. Usually went off somewhere all secluded-like and came back in the mornin’, none the worse for wear. But my sister….” he trailed off. Hanzo felt him shudder again.

Hanzo drew his hand back so he could pull his feet out from under himself and cross them in front, and put his arm back on McCree, this time fully around his shoulders. Several minutes passed. McCree sniffled.

“She was seven,” he started again. He was staring straight ahead at the wall now; his eyes were glistening. Another minute passed.

“I told her-” McCree’s voice broke. “I told her to run too.” The tears flowed freely.

Hanzo wrapped his arms around McCree and pulled him closer, to lean against him. McCree rested his forehead in the crook of Hanzo’s neck and Hanzo rested his chin on McCree’s head. “Oh Jesse,” Hanzo whispered. He could feel McCree shaking against him, breathing against his skin. 

“That’s the only one I can remember right,” McCree kept talking. “Dear lord, why did it have to be  _ that _ time I remembered?” He practically sobbed. Hanzo started rubbing circles on the cowboy’s back again. Silence fell. They stayed like that for a while. 

 

Hanzo wasn’t sure how long they sat there, leaned up against each other on the floor, covered in dried up blood, but it had been long enough he was convinced McCree had fallen asleep. He almost thought it possible he could have dozed off a bit too. Hanzo looked over at the alarm clock on the short bedside table. It read 6:16. It would be best to at least try to clean up some of the mess they made. Retrieve McCree’s arm from the cliffside, too. Hanzo looked down at Jesse’s face and sighed. Brushed at his hair. Another sigh, then he gave Jesse’s shoulder a light squeeze. McCree jerked upright, blinking. When he saw Hanzo, he chuckled a bit and wiped at his eyes, but he’d stopped crying a long time ago.

“Twenty an’ two years and I’m still all bent up over it,” he mused, readjusting the blanket covering his lower half. Another chuckle. Hanzo was beginning to know McCree sometimes did this as a reflex when he was uncomfortable.

“No…” Hanzo mumbled. “I understand.” He cast his eyes down. He understood too well.

“But hey,” McCree gave a reassuring smile, nudging Hanzo’s knee. “You did really good. An’ thanks for this.” He indicated his blanket.

Hanzo looked up. McCree’s hand stayed resting on his knee. Hanzo twitched the corners of his mouth, furrowed his brow, and exhaled, something that on any other person could have been a smile.

McCree filled the silence again. “Sorry ‘bout all this again.” He indicated the floor, the walls, the door. “You don’t hafta help me clean up if ya don’t want.” He surveyed the room, muttered “damn” under his breath.

“Nonsense!” Hanzo objected. And then quieter, “It wasn’t your fault.”

McCree looked at Hanzo, eyebrows raised. He let out a huff and shut his eyes. “You know, I just keep tellin’ myself that, and it just don’t seem to stick.”

“But you know the truth.”

“Yeah, heh. I guess.” McCree ran a hand through his messy hair. “I know it.”

Silence fell again, only for a moment. McCree sat up suddenly, punctuating his first syllable with a clap of his hands. “Welp! Better start gettin’ on this mess. I gotta go get me some clothes first, though.” Hanzo watched as he stood. Fortunately McCree had the sense to take the blanket with him, and tie it around his waist.

McCree turned his head to look down at Hanzo. “Need a hand up there, partner?”

“I am fine,” Hanzo waved off the hand extended to him. But somewhere on the way from his knees to his feet, he swayed. He was caught by the elbow by McCree, who pulled him up. Hanzo scrunched up his face and put his hand to his head, which was suddenly throbbing, his vision swimming. 

McCree laughed, slightly more than a chuckle. “Looks to me like you actually might!” He let Hanzo lean against him.

Hanzo huffed and pushed away, shaking the dizzyness out. “Blood loss. Didn’t you want to get clothes?” And he walked out into the hallway.

McCree’s genuine, full laughter was softer than Hanzo expected. He expected booming; space-filling. It caught Hanzo off-guard, so much so he nearly stopped in his tracks. But it was soft and gentle, and halted when the man noticed he was getting left behind, followed by the sound of loud, bare footfalls on carpet then on tile. Hanzo smiled to himself. McCree was not a gentle walker.

McCree trotted into step with Hanzo and was silent. Hanzo fell back half a pace to let McCree lead him to his room. 

After a moment of walking in silence, McCree piped up again. “You know you look really good with your hair down?”

Hanzo’s hand instinctively went up to touch the back of his head where his ponytail usually was. His hair was indeed still down.

“You should have it like that more often. Honest.”

Hanzo shook his head. “It would get in the way.”

McCree laughed his startlingly soft laugh again. “An’ what, the four foot ribbon don’t?”

Hanzo brought a hand to his face to cover an irrepressible smile. “That… is different.”

McCree huffed and added, “I guess,” and turned a corner. Hanzo followed.

“That really is a good look on you though,” McCree added.

Hanzo sighed and leaned towards McCree. “Thank you,” and there was a smirk in his voice. And then he kissed Jesse, a small peck, on the corner of his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Please read this fic I wrote about Hanzo meeting McCree’s wolf for the first time. It does not go very well. There will soon be a companion piece with this that includes vampire Hanzo. Both of these fics exist in the same universe so Hanzo is a vampire in this one, but none of his abilities are really relevant enough to mention. Also McCree was a boyscout so of course he can tie a knot one-handed.


End file.
